


something visual, not too abysmal

by sierraadeux



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Costumes, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Established Relationship, M/M, Makeup, Rocky Horror Picture Show References, and tomfoolery, crimes against toast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27310906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sierraadeux/pseuds/sierraadeux
Summary: Dan and Phil get ready for the late night, double feature picture show.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64





	something visual, not too abysmal

**Author's Note:**

> happy halloween i will be celebrating on the couch with my cat and rocky horror so i thought i'd post a little story in that same festive spirit :)  
> oh and i didn't know how/didn't think it was prevalent enough to tag it but if like general descriptions of shaving bother u def give this a skip!

“Phi-il!” Dan raps his knuckles against the door a few times. “Have you died in there?” 

“Noo.”

The call from the other side of the door is all high and conspiratorial, like his boyfriend did indeed find a way to knock himself out in the bathroom and is too embarrassed to admit it, even as a ghost. 

Dan rests his head against the door. 

“It’s been like an hour and a half. Did you fall in?” he asks through the fond smile tugging at his lips. “I didn’t hear the shower turn on, did you manage to slip _without_ water?” 

There’s a soft huff of a laugh through the door, and Dan, apparently, _is_ able to smile wider. He’s just… excited. And very much in love. He reckons that’s allowed—pushing the honeymoon phase well over a decade. 

Reckons phase is used loosely, or isn’t the correct word at all. Like his affinity for black clothing and his sexual orientation. Black clothing, being gay, Phil Lester—Dan loves it all, really, in that everlasting sort of way. 

“Do you promise not to laugh at me if I let you in?” Phil’s voice sounds absolutely pitiful, and Dan’s suddenly very afraid that he might actually have to dial 999 and explain that his flatmate’s managed to get an arm stuck down the toilet up to the elbow—or something. 

Can’t really rule anything out with Phil. 

“That’s a big ask.” Dan goes the teasing route, just in case Phil _is_ in some sort of predicament that he’s going to have to distract him from until help arrives. But also, it’s simply the truth. Sometimes—most of the time—Dan can’t help the laughter that bubbles up when he looks at Phil. Not because he’s funny looking or anyth- _well…_

No. _No_ , he isn’t funny looking at all. It’s just… hard to contain the overwhelming feelings that beg to burst right out of him whenever he so much as _thinks_ of Phil. 

Yeah. He’s _that_ in love—wouldn’t have it any other way though. Even if it means he might walk in on some clumsy mishap of a disaster in which Phil finally gets to live out his Swayze dreams alongside Dan’s Demi Moore. 

Could do with a bit of sexy pottery in their life, TBH. Dan lifts his brows at the thought, his hair making a soft scraping noise against the door as he shifts against it—reminding him why he’s bugging Phil in the first place, beyond being a wonderful, worried boyfriend. 

He really needs a shower. He put it off all day, let Phil hog the bathroom first in hopes that his curls won’t go all frizzy by the time they leave if he didn’t wait around all day with his hair done. 

It’s a proper mess now. He’s aware of that fact, can see it all wild in the blurred reflection of the shiny bathroom door handle. Two days worth of hair product all caked on and crunchy, he’s almost starting to regret the decision to put it off.

Maybe it’s also a bit of an anxiety thing, though. Getting ready early leaves for far too much time to stare in reflective surfaces and freak the fuck out. Frizzy hair would probably, actually, improve his costume—now that he’s thinking about it. 

Not like he’s thinking he’s really going to. Freak the fuck out, that is. He wouldn’t have suggested it if he wasn’t confident about it. Wouldn’t have suggested going all out for it, either. But there’s still that bit of lingering fear, the kind that takes work to shake off. The kind that may never be shaken off completely, and that’s okay. He knows that’s okay. Which, admittedly, is something he hadn’t come to terms with until a few months ago, really. 

It’s shocking just how much freedom that acceptance has granted him—every day feeling just that little bit more… _free._

He also acknowledges that the little comforts he grants himself, the silly things he does—like putting off getting ready until just before he’s meant to leave—to stave off that anxiety that prevents him from doing everything- _anything_ he wants, aren’t at all out of cowardice. They’re quite the opposite, actually. 

_Progress._ All of this feels like progress, that not at all little thing he’s heard so much about. 

But none of that—absolutely none of that—matters if his date to The Rocky Horror Picture Show is invisible to everyone else in the audience. 

Dan catches Phil’s sigh with the way his ear is pressed against the door. Then, “It’s not locked,” grumbled in the most stereotypical pouty Phil voice grants him permission to wrap his hand around the cool, metal handle he’s been staring into. 

When he opens the door he isn’t met with Phil’s spectral form. 

It takes him a moment to decide if that’s a relief or not. Because the scene in front of him is, _well_ , a _scene._

Whatever he was expecting, his six foot something idiot of a boyfriend sat in the middle of the floor on a towel surrounded by pink disposable razors was not something that had ever crossed his mind. He’s mostly nude, an abundance of skin on show with his white boxer briefs all pushed up to the very tops of his thighs, and he looks up at Dan with a pout and a pink razor absolutely covered in shaving cream held up in his right hand. 

It might be the most ridiculous thing Dan has ever seen, and he’s lived with Phil Lester for quite some time now, so that really is a feat. 

Dan bites hard on his tongue, doesn’t laugh despite desperately wanting to, despite knowing Phil can see his mirth in his eyes.

“Well that’s not great for the environment,” Dan says, leaning against the doorframe, a fond smile playing at his lips. 

Phil huffs. “What else was I supposed to do?” He dips the razor he’s holding in the bowl by his thigh and swishes it around before going back to town on the white foam around his knee. “I didn’t want to ruin a face one.” 

Dan marvels at the way his brows tug together as he folds over himself, at the way his tongue slips out from between his lips when he stops talking. 

He looks up, suddenly, distressed. “Did you know I have so much leg?” 

Dan snorts, looks down at the long pale legs stretched out in front of him. He pokes his socked toe against Phil’s bare one. He nods. “It’s a lot of leg.”

Phil’s brows squish even further together, his eyes are wide as he shakes his head solemnly and looks back down. 

“Too much leg,” Phil decides. Dan snorts, crossing his arms. 

_Yep_ , this is his forever. Those are his forever lanky, half-shaved legs. 

Dan’s eyes flick between Phil’s legs, the right nearly hairless, save for the spot he’s going at just above his knee now, and the left still looking very much like Phil’s regular old leg. 

“I still have those wax strips, I think. Could do you if you want,” he suggests. 

“No way in hell, I saw how that ended.” 

“Yeah,” Dan huffs, “my legs as smooth as a wet porpoise.”

“A wet porpoise?” Phil lifts a brow, looking up from beneath his lashes. 

“Yeah.” 

“Weird.” 

Dan snorts. “You’re the one sat on the floor surrounded by bits of hair.” 

“And that makes me weird?” Phil continues to swipe the blade against his skin in long stripes. 

“No.” Dan shakes his head. Phil isn’t even looking at him. “Not at all.” He sighs, just a little soft fond thing, to himself and steps into the room as Phil swishes the razor in his murky water bowl again. He plops down on the tile unceremoniously, crossing his legs by Phil’s left knee. 

“You want a hand?”

Armed with the fresh razor Phil presses into his left hand and the can of foamy shaving cream in the other, Dan gets to work. 

“This is kind of weird,” Dan comments as he goes. Phil knows he isn’t talking about him wanting to shave his legs, but _him_ shaving his legs. They get each other like that, and it isn’t like Dan hasn’t had the rare moment where he’s craved that fresh soft and smooth feeling of hairless skin against soft blankets or freshly washed sheets. Though he reckons he can’t really recall a time where Phil has done the same. 

“S’not weird if I like it,” Phil says. He’s leaned back on his palms since finishing his right leg, apparently deciding that his work is done—or at least, changed to be sitting pretty and watching Dan swipe the razor against his other leg. Not exactly what Dan had in mind offering to help in order to speed up the process, but it’s not like he’s going to complain. 

“Oh, it’s _definitely_ weird if you like it,” Dan laughs. 

Phil does a little huffy giggle, waits until Dan’s reaching over him to rinse the blade to shove at his shoulder. “Shut up.” 

“So what’s the deal here?” Dan asks as he takes his time with the last few patches of hair at the back of Phil’s thigh—just liking the way his soft, smooth skin feels under his hand while he holds his knee up at that warm spot where it bends. 

Phil hums and Dan flicks his eyes up, unsurprised to not be met with blue. Phil cracks an eye open when Dan doesn’t say anything else, the corner of his mouth tugging up from where his lips have loosely parted in contentment. “Huh?” he says a little louder. 

“Why’d you want to do this?” 

Phil shrugs. “Thought it’d be nice,” he hums, voice as soft as his skin. “Since we’re going all out.” 

Dan hums low and deep in his throat as he drops the razor to glide his hand up smooth, damp skin—from the bend of his ankle, up to his knee, and back down his thigh. He wiggles the tips of his fingers under the bunched up fabric of Phil’s Calvins. 

“It’s very nice,” he decides. 

“Do you want to do yours?” 

“Hmm,” Dan hums, looking down at his own ankles where his joggers have made their way up his calves. He’s kind of lazy, kind of can’t believe he actually just sat here and shaved one of Phil’s legs for him. But Phil’s legs are so _sinfully_ soft, it might just be worth it. Dan reaches out and runs the tip of his finger up and down Phil’s shin. Phil giggles and wiggles away, something hushed and soft about it tickling leaving his lips. 

He imagines how nice it’ll be to slide into their bed later, all soft on soft on soft. He really can’t fathom saying no to that. 

“I can help you,” Phil says as he waves one of those stupid pink razors in the air. Dan snorts. 

“Absolutely not. I’ll do mine in the shower.” Dan leans over, presses against Phil’s warm side to swipe the razor from his hand. “Like a normal human being.” 

“Calling me not normal?” Phil asks with a smirk and a lifted brow, then a stolen kiss. 

Dan leans into it, lets it linger before pulling away with another quick peck—he just can’t help himself. 

“Calling you an alien,” Dan says as he pushes himself up off the floor and makes quick work of wiggling out of his joggers, flinging them right at Phil’s face. 

“ _Hey!_ Babuse- _”_

“Oh, ba- bab- _oof_!” Dan’s nonsense teasing cut right off with Phil’s grabby little hand at his ankle, nearly toppling him over into the glass of the shower. “You’re horrible.” He smiles down fondly at the Phil on the floor. “Do I need to solve your riddle before I’m set free to take a shower, oh wise bathroom troll?” 

“No,” Phil smiles, his eyes going all crinkly at the corners, “cute boys get free passage.” He lets go of Dan’s ankle after one last squeeze and scoots back over to his mess on the floor. “I’ll clean this up then, if you’re getting in.” 

“Alright,” Dan huffs out a little laugh, “you do that.” 

The room is suspiciously quiet as Dan pushes open the glass door and turns on the shower. There’s nothing but the static sound of the spray filling his ears, and mind, while he’s stripping out of the rest of his clothes. 

Then, suddenly, there’s a soft giggle of a warning approximately one millisecond before Phil whips Dan’s discarded sweatpants against his bare ass. 

Dan flails his arm behind him to prevent a double tap, and Phil’s adorably evil laughter fills the bathroom as Dan twists around to glare at him. Glaring, by definition, probably shouldn’t include such an incredibly wide, fond smile, but alas- this is just how Dan lives. 

“Oh, I hate you,” Dan’s words are seeping with adoration. 

Phil smiles wider, his whole face all squished up. “You love me.” 

Dan rolls his eyes. “Debatable,” he says, fond, as he steps into the shower and shuts the door behind him. 

Leg balanced on the little low shelf built into the shower, Dan reckons Phil’s method wasn’t as ridiculous as he first thought. He has just a hair better balance though, and barely wobbles twice as he gets to work, the room steaming up around him. The clumsy bangs and crashes of Phil cleaning up his small hurricane just outside the shower are muffled by the water pattering against his back. 

He doesn’t even realize how much his muscles are all tight and rigid until the steam and hot water starts to loosen everything up. There’s an audible pop from somewhere between his neck and shoulder when he deems his legs finished and stands back up straight, rolling his shoulders. It’s quickly followed by the glass door opening without warning, spooking him and eliciting a surprised, “ _Oi!”_

Not an axe murderer—just the man in his house that likes to fuel the fires of that irrational fear far too often for Dan’s liking. 

Though it’s not like he doesn’t like _this,_ jump scares and all. 

“How’d you do that so fast?” Phil’s voice matches his pouty bottom lip as he steps right into the shower—not asking if Dan would like the company at all, just knowing he would. 

There’s something Dan really loves about that. And no, that _isn’t_ some sort of weird… axe murderer kink. Showers are just always better with Phil, even if they ebb on the side of danger with their combined long limbs and lack of coordination. 

_Maybe he does have a bit of a-_

No, no, we’re not analyzing that right now. 

“You know all those years of skinny jeans has robbed me of most of my leg hair.” It’s true, he barely had to touch his thighs. “Makes it easier.” 

Phil snorts. “True,” he says as he crowds up behind him, replacing the spray of water with his chest and sliding his hands down to squeeze at both of Dan’s thighs. “Always so soft,” he murmurs by Dan’s ear. 

“Shh,” Dan leans back against Phil, “you’re going to make us late if you distract me.” 

“I’m not distracting you.” 

Hands squeeze around Dan’s thighs one more time before they slide up his skin. Phil pulls him closer against him, his hands trailing across his stomach and up his chest, pressing open mouthed kisses to his wet shoulder. 

“Yes you are,” Dan says, breathless. 

“I’m just saving water, riding a cowboy, as they say.” 

“They absolutely don’t say that.” Dan rolls his eyes to himself as he reaches for his shampoo. 

“Yes they do,” Phil lets up, lifting a hand and making a grabby claw at the bottle, “give me that.” 

Once again, there’s not much efficiency or time saving in letting Phil take the time to wash his hair for him, instead of _actually_ showering together, but Dan can’t find anything in him to care. He hands the bottle over easily, stepping back as Phil does, letting him have the full stream to lean his head back and wet his hair. His neck makes a few small snaps and crackles as he does. 

Phil huffs softly, pushing Dan forward again and lathering his fingers in his hair. 

“You sound like a glow-stick.” 

“Yeah, well…” Dan hums. Spending the day slightly wound up from nerves all scrunched up in the corner of the sofa will do that to a guy. 

He leans back as much as he can trust with the two of them in a slippy environment, and melts into the touch. 

It’s nice, beyond nice, to let his mind fall blank while Phil washes his hair and kneads his thumbs into muscles in his back and shoulders with their sweet smelling body wash foaming against his skin. It probably takes far longer than it would have if Dan was by himself, and Phil has just been standing in the water the whole time, but they both have big, sated grins on their faces when Phil deems Dan done and nudges him out with a kiss to his bright pink cheek. 

Productivity can have so many different interpretations. This particular shower was, for all intents and purposes, some form of productive. 

More steam escapes when dan exits the shower, the rest of the room becoming just that bit warmer as his feet meet their plush bath mat. All pink and clean and dripping wet, Dan is quick to wrap one of their big fluffy towels around himself. As he pats himself dry, watching the blurred motion of Phil washing himself, listening to the soft hums of whatever song is stuck in his head today, Dan shivers with—he turns away from the shower to squint at the door, only just realizing they left it open a crack—the chilled draft that comes from the bathroom door. 

What did you think he was going to say? _Antici-_

“Hey Dan,” Phil calls, interrupting his train of thought, “I forgot to grab my face wash, can you get it for me?” 

“Mm,” Dan hums, apparently even his voice loose and free of all tension. Phil’s just always been good at that, he thinks, good at relieving his tension. He swings open the mirror cabinet and swipes the product off the shelf, padding across the floor and passing it off to the pink hand held out of the shower—pruney fingers all wiggly and expectant. 

The steam filling the room starts to make his skin damp again, so with a dick and a heart drawn into the fogged mirror for Phil to discover when he gets out, he slips out of the bathroom. He replaces the humid air in his lungs with something more crisp and another chill climbs its way up his spine. The door clicks softly behind him as he lets out a small, satisfied sigh. 

_-pation._

Apparently, YouTube _is_ good for something. 

Okay, that’s harsh. He doesn’t mean it that way—alright, maybe a little. Dan just wouldn’t bet in a million years that he’d be anywhere near proficient at putting things on his face in a manner that actually looks halfway decent, never mind _actually good,_ and he truly only has beauty gurus and drag queens to thank for that. Their advice really is solid, and watching hours upon hours of videos—because Phil likes the drama and gossip they throw in while beating their faces—apparently drilled a few things into his head. 

He’s plopped himself right on the floor in front of the big mirror in their bedroom, the chronically underused bright overhead lighting flicked on and a plethora of various tools and tins and palettes spread out around his folded sweatpant-clad legs. He didn’t bother with pulling a shirt on, warmed from his shower and not wanting to get all sorts of powders on what he’s actually planning on wearing tonight. 

That getup remains laid out nicely on the bed his back is turned to, right beside Phil’s—like a stupid fucking metaphor or something. Always right next to each other. Attached at the hip. Companions through life. All that other stuff that makes him want to both roll his eyes and gag and get down on a knee. 

He’s actually quite surprised by Phil’s choice, being that Dan was the one to bring up going, and also the one who’s been before. Not like he’s dressed up or anything in the past, he’s never really been braver than a last minute smear of red lipstick if one of his theater friends was extra pushy, but he at least knows what to expect. Phil, on the other hand, is completely new to it—a virgin, some would say. 

Dan snorts at the thought, accidentally bumping the small brush in his hand against his nose. He frowns in the mirror at the snowy cascade of black powder that settles on his cheek. 

“Shit, fuck,” he curses under his breath, quickly patting at the floor by his shin and grabbing the big fluffy brush he used to dust translucent powder over his painted skin. Gingerly, he swipes the darkness away, and by some miracle he manages to remove it without creating a grey blob under his eye. He wipes the brush against his sweatpants a few times—probably not a real makeup artist technique—and dabs it in the pot of powder he still has open on the floor by his knee, going over the spot again until it looks as though the accident never happened. 

Just as he’s letting out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in, shoulders losing that little bit of tension, Phil’s voice by the door makes him jump. 

“ _Jesus fuck-”_

 _“Sorry!”_

They speak at the same time—Dan with a hand slapped over his heart and Phil with a hand over his mouth, no doubt hiding the toothy grin Dan can see in his eyes. 

“Do you want a coffee?” Phil asks again through his giggles once Dan’s heart rate has slowed, him and all three of his towels making their way into the room to dig through the top drawer of his dresser. 

A soft smile settles on Dan’s face as he does a little shake of his head. Not an answer, just a response to the overwhelming feelings Phil jams in his heart and brain. Phil, of course, doesn’t catch it at all as he drops a couple of his towels to pull on pants and one of Dan’s tee shirts, but for some reason it settles in the air all the same. 

Dan guesses that’s just how it is with them. How it’ll always be. It’s fucking… Dan doesn’t think he has a word for it, really. It’s just _everything._

“Yes please,” he says. 

Phil takes a second at the door before he leaves again, turning back to give Dan a proper once over. Looking all the picture of perfect and ridiculous—dripping hair haphazardly under a towel, mouth hanging open, and his smooth, pale legs still flushed pink. 

_God_ , he has to look away if he doesn’t want to end up missing the show all together. 

Dan can see him still staring as he looks back to the mirror. He smirks into the glass, a dimple poking into his cheek. The black around his eyes crinkles with his skin, making his eyes look impossibly dark. 

“Hot,” is apparently all that Phil’s brain cells can muster. It’s probably the best compliment Dan has ever gotten. And it has nothing to do with the sound that leaves Phil’s mouth, but the lack thereof. Phil—rendered stupid and speechless just from a bit of light foundation and a smokey eye—licks his lips and re-hinges his jaw before turning on his heel and slowly padding down the hall. 

Definitely an ego boost. 

Dan is tugging at his dry curls with product in his fingers when Phil makes his way back into the room with two steaming mugs. He doesn’t want to disclose how meticulously he tousled his hair around to get it to look like this, not at all effortlessly messy, so he won’t. Cherry red lips smile at his reflection one last time before he leans back and tilts his chin up to direct it at Phil. 

It only grows wider as he catches Phil’s breath hitch, his chest stilling and his lips parting and moving in that cute way he does when there’s a thousand things he wants to say but all his brain supplies is the internet dial-up tone. 

He’d be lying if he said Phil didn’t have the same effect, because he absolutely does. And he isn’t the one covered in makeup and hair product—just all cozied up in stolen clothes, towel replaced with a mostly dry quiff that Dan will soon have his way with the warming iron plugged into the wall. Dan takes the mug outstretched towards him gratefully, not bothering to worry about lipstick stains as he watches Phil kick at a few eyeliner pencils and sit criss cross across from him. 

Dan sips at his coffee while Phil gets comfortable, scooting closer until their knees are bumping together. It’s warm down his throat with just a hint of a burn that makes him hum around the lip of the mug. 

“Does this have Baileys in it?” 

“Duh.” Phil smiles around his own mug, taking a sip before setting it down. “So what am I in for?” he asks, staring at Dan’s lips instead of his eyes as he does. 

“I’m not going to go all in,” Dan says, setting down his coffee and picking up the primer. “I don’t think I’m that good and you touch your face too much anyway-”

“No,” Phil cuts him off, squeezing at Dan’s knee, “I meant the screening.”

“Oh,” Dan laughs as he gently rubs the product into Phil’s skin. He starts to babble as they go, Phil scrunching his nose at the coldness despite Dan’s fingers being warmer than his skin. Phil makes a whole dramatic show about it when Dan squeezes a few drops of the light foundation he bought in a few spots on his face. Dan just rolls his eyes as he grabs the makeup sponge he used earlier and bounces it right against Phil’s nose. 

He leverages himself to dab in the product with a hand on Phil’s distractingly smooth knee. It’s so warm and smooth and soft and- 

Dan realizes he’s just been hovering with the bright sponge held in the air between them, staring down at Phil’s knee. 

“Might have to do that more often,” Phil says, all cheek. Dan huffs with that tiny shake of his head, leaning forward to dab at Phil’s face—trying very hard to ignore the feeling of Phil’s skin under his hand. 

He mostly fails. 

Dan fills Phil in while he, _well_ , fills Phil in—his eyebrows, at least. He tries very hard to not be jealous at how easily and perfectly the dark black pencil traces over his brows. He knows he can’t take the credit—Phil has a natural brow shape most drag queens and beauty gurus would die for—but he does let himself get a little smug about it. 

He alternates between his right hand resting at Phil’s knee and gently cupping at Phil’s jaw, keeping him in place and steady with those little jumps and his uneven posture that makes him quick to fall right over if Dan presses too hard. 

Phil is always just… too trusting, too willing to be the putty in Dan’s hands. Dan isn’t complaining though, not at all. It’s just a little inconvenient having to hold him so firmly in place while also trying to not completely fuck his face up. Dan reckons it would be easier if he got some bungee cords and strapped him down—or something. 

Once again, a train of thought he shouldn’t entertain or linger on for too long if he doesn’t want them to be late or miss the show all together. 

Horny brain wins out though—most likely thanks to the Baileys—and he ends up saying something along those lines aloud. Something that shouldn’t be as incredibly filthy as it is. 

Phil, of course, runs with it. 

“Like a Christmas tree? You want to strap me up to the roof of your Toyota Camry?” 

Runs with it in the other direction. 

Dan blinks, pulling the lip pencil away from Phil’s face as he tries not to laugh. A dimple pokes into his cheek, biting his tongue while those gleaming blue eyes look at him intensely. He can see the buzz of the alcohol there, also making Phill all floaty, extra pliant. And apparently, also, immune to Dan’s bondage detour. 

“Toyota Camry,” Dan repeats. “Where does that even come from?” he asks incredulously, looking at Phil hard as he twirls the pencil between his fingers, attempting to conjure x-ray vision just to see into that weirdly wonderful brain of his. 

“Uhhhh…” Phil bites his lip, ruins the lipliner there. Dan couldn’t have expected any less, really. He’s actually surprised he hadn’t smudged anything sooner. “Japan, I think?” 

“Right.” Dan smiles with a little huff of laughter escaping. “Can you close your eyes,” Dan instructs, leaning forward when Phil complies. He presses a chaste kiss to Phil’s lips, red on red, then continues on. 

“You’re supposed to do _what_ with toast?!” Phil nearly shrieks in Dan’s face, and Dan decides he’s definitely done with one last swipe under his eye—lest he wants Phil to get his eye poked out. It apparently wasn’t the best idea to inform him what the audience does when Frank proposes a toast at dinner. 

“Do they not know that toast is like, the seventh wonder of the world?” Phil asks, eyes all wide and offended. 

“Phil, there already is a seventh wonder.” 

“Yeah, it’s toast,” Phil says, matter-of-factly. Then, “Damnit,” all quiet under his breath, looking down at his lap. 

Dan tugs his brows together. “What?” 

“Now I want toast,” Phil looks up at him with a glossy red pouty lip. _Of course._

“I’m nearly done with you,” Dan pats at Phil’s thighs, “go put your clothes on before I do your hair, and I’ll put some toast in.” 

Phil laughs, the corners of his darkened eyes crinkling, no doubt making creases in all of Dan’s work, but Dan can’t be mad about it at all—not with that look on Phil’s face. 

“Damnit,” Phil says, softly, shaking his head. 

“What now?” 

“I love you,” Phil fills in quickly, perfectly. Dan bonks him in the nose with a makeup brush, then pushes up off the floor to go make them toast. An entirely appropriate post-dinner, pre-outing snack. 

Somehow four slices of toast turns into two more coffees and two more coffees turns into a few more splashes of Baileys until Dan starts to lose count. Dan manages to not burn anything—the toast, the coffee, his skin, Phil’s skin—Phil happily munching away as he uses the hot iron to curl Phil’s hair. 

He can’t talk about Phil’s outfit while he’s holding a hot iron right now, can’t dwell on the way his mouth went dry when he returned to see Phil in little black shorts and fishnet thigh highs, wobbling around on one foot for whatever reason as he attempted to tighten his corset top that was most definitely on backwards. He can’t think too hard about his own fingers against smooth skin, the sweet laughter filling the room as he undressed Phil to redress him, helping him properly lace up his top. 

He really can’t. If he does he’ll either get Phil right across the forehead with the iron, or he’ll toss the thing aside all together to pull that top off without any intent to get it back on. So he doesn’t, doesn’t dwell on it at all. 

It helps that they’re so goddamn giggly, tipping just over the line of buzzed on both their drinks and each other. Phil has taken to reciting lines he remembers from their yearly rewatch in an absolutely ridiculous voice, and Dan has taken to pausing his work on Phil’s hair to ruin their lipstick. 

It’s all a part of the look, _right?_ Frank and Magenta definitely had lipstick smeared all around their lips, a bit here and there on their necks, _right?_

“I really love the…” Phil pauses, leaning forward as Dan nearly traps the iron between their foreheads—only narrowly pulling it away with a gasp. “-skillful way you do that.” 

“Oh, shut up,” Dan says, then does it for them, giving both of their faces the final kiss of death. 

“Alright,” Phil hums against his mouth. “Go put the maid outfit on, Howell.” 

Dan pulls away, lifting a brow as Phil gets up from his spot on the floor. Dan gets a front row seat to the Phil leg revue, milky skin broken up by criss crosses of delicate black fabric, a tight band squeezing around each of his thighs. Dan’s entirely too dizzy to even fathom getting up, so he appreciates the outstretched hands offering to help pull him to his feet. 

Phil giggles as he wiggles his fingers in invitation. “I’ve always wanted to say that.” 

Dan snorts, takes Phil’s hands as he rolls his eyes. “Of course you have.” His cool sarcasm falls incredibly flat with the distinct crack in his voice. Phil’s smirk burns a hole in his brain, making sure all remaining blood and oxygen in it vacates the premises. 

He does. Put on the maid outfit, that is. 

When they’re both standing in front of the big mirror against the wall, Dan reckons he’s just a little drunk. Or at least, that’s how he explains away the way he nearly has to stop himself from crying—feeling the satin against his thigh, rubbing it back and forth with his thumb as Phil squeezes around his middle and rests his chin on his shoulder.

The little white headband in his hair is slightly crooked, and there’s a mysterious red lipstick stain on his apron, but everything he sees in the mirror is absolutely perfect. His heart is racing, though he doesn’t feel anxious like he did earlier in the day. It doesn’t feel like any weight is pressing down on him at all, really. He feels almost… lifted—like if he lets the stupid tears welling in his eyes fall he will simply float up right through the ceiling. 

Phil brings him back down to earth with a low, “ _Woof,”_ in his ear. Both of them shake with Dan’s surprised laughter, pressed so close together like this. 

“You’re a fool,” Dan says with a smile, leaning back against Phil’s chest. 

“If there’s one fool for you…” Dan catches Phil’s raised brow in the mirror. He steps back on his toe, making sure his pause stays permanent. Phil merely hums the rest of the lyric right in his ear.

This was a really, really good idea. 

They’re warmed from alcohol and far too giggly for any sane human beings. Though Dan reckons they’ve definitely never tried to be anything else. As they fall out of a cab in front of the theater, Phil clinging on to his hand—Dan’s parka around his shoulders even though he insisted it wasn’t cold enough to need a jacket—Dan feels like an entirely different person while also feeling the most himself he’s ever been. 

And it’s like the show wasn’t even the main event of the night.


End file.
